Behind These Hands

by Linda Vigen Phillips

  Behind

  These

  Hands

  a novel in verse

  LINDA VIGEN PHILLIPS

  Durham, NC

  Copyright © 2018 Linda Vigen Phillips

  Behind These Hands

  Linda Vigen Phillips

  lightmessages.com/linda-phillips

  Published 2018, by Light Messages

  www.lightmessages.com

  Durham, NC 27713 USA

  SAN: 920-9298

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-259-3

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61153-258-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018933744

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  To Anna and Luke,

  who already know how to celebrate life

  with their hands.

  Table of Contents

  Behind These Hands

  Contents

  Autumn THE TOCCATA IN D MINOR

  THE BROTHERS

  “THE KITE”

  JUAN

  MIA

  HOME AFTER SCHOOL

  THE SCORE

  THE LOCKER

  RULES OF THE GAME

  SOMETHING MORE

  WAITING

  PAINFUL

  WAVERING IN THE WIND

  RESOLVE

  TRASHED IDEA

  AMBIVALENCE

  THE TRUTH

  TEST RESULTS

  WHY

  NEW NORMAL

  THE NEXT DAY

  BUSINESS AS USUAL

  A GOOD DOSE OF TARA

  A SECOND GOOD DOSE

  A BAD FIT

  PRACTICE

  CONFESSION

  FEELING DIRTY

  AFTER-SCHOOL MAYHEM

  A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO…

  DON’T QUESTION A GOOD THING

  BLOOD WORK

  MUSIC MADNESS

  TAKE “ONE”

  IT’S SIMPLY TOO HARD

  SATURDAY AT THE PARK

  NOT TO WORRY

  MONDAY PRACTICE ROOM, TEXT TO JUAN

  MONDAY NIGHT, TEXT TO MIA

  INTERRUPTED CONVERSATION WITH MY FINGERS

  CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE

  THE LAUGHTER DIES

  IT’S ALL RELATIVE

  THE PREMIERE

  LIFE AFTER DEADLINE

  FAMILY DYNAMICS

  DAY-MARE

  REGRETS

  ONLY GOOD LEFTOVERS

  AFRAID

  COMFORT ZONE

  BE GONE

  WRITING ASSIGNMENT

  HEAVY NEWS

  THE TREE AND THE LEAVES

  MISSING INFORMATION

  HUG

  LOOKS

  Winter Part 1 THE BEAST

  THE DETAILS

  CARRIER

  THE QUESTIONS

  THE UNDERSTUDIES

  WITH JUAN’S HELP

  THE STALKER

  QUIET DAY

  SCHMOOZIES

  JUST A BAD DREAM

  BIG FAT ‘D’

  LET IT OUT

  TWENTY ‘HELPS’

  PRACTICE

  THE SAME BUT DIFFERENT

  THE ONLY FEARFUL ONE

  CAR CHATTER

  A GOLDMINE

  JAZZ NIGHT

  BROKEN THANKSGIVING

  KINDNESS AGAIN

  WHITE NOISE

  SMALL TALK IN THE PARK

  NO MORE BAD NEWS

  SCHMOOZIES GROUP THERAPY

  INTRODUCTION

  MEET AND GREET

  NEW FAMILY ORIENTATION

  TIPS FOR THE FAMILY

  MEMORIAL ROOM

  GOLD MINE

  SORRY FOR MYSELF

  PERMISSION

  TRAFFIC JAM

  THE ROCK

  HOW IT FEELS

  IN THE WINNER’S CORNER

  AN ISSUE TO BE DEALT WITH

  WITHOUT A MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT

  FRAGMENTS

  TALKING SOON

  THE WORDS I NEED

  THE CAUSE

  REHEARSING

  BAD IDEA

  GUILTY DAY

  Winter Part 2 be-CAUSE

  NIGHT RIDE

  LOST CAUSE

  HE’S A GUY

  THE CONTEST CONTINUES

  THE DISCONNECT

  MAKING WISHES

  PAINFUL EXPLANATION

  BAD IDEA AGAIN

  NO CLUES

  SETTING AN EXAMPLE

  AVOIDANCE

  SITCOMS AND SHOULDS

  READY TO TALK, READY TO LISTEN

  DEAL WITH IT

  MUSIC OR ME?

  DEALING WITH DREAMS AND REALITY

  ORBITING BODIES

  GOLDILOCKS

  WE LOVE YOU, MRS SHEPHERD

  BILLY AND MARY

  GETTING THE BALL ROLLING

  MY NEW WORLD

  SNOW DAZE

  A DATE WITH GOOGLE

  CRYING OUT FOR ANSWERS

  UNFAVORABLE CLIMATE

  AFTERTHOUGHT

  LATE NIGHT MESSAGE

  APOLOGIES

  THE FEATHER NAMED PRIDE

  HOPING FOR THE BEST

  NOT NOW, SAYS THE VOICE

  HARD DECISION

  LIKE SALVE ON OPEN WOUNDS

  CHRISTMAS DAY

  ENERGIZED

  THIRD TIME, YES!

  EGOS AND POSSIBILITIES

  THE GANG’S ALL HERE

  TO CLAIRE AND THE CAUSE

  THE BEAUTIFUL CHILD FUND

  SOMETHING

  SAD NEWS

  FORGING AHEAD

  HOW IT IS NOW

  WALK IN THE PARK

  MOMENT OF INDECISION

  ANY MORE UGLINESS

  LATE NIGHT REALIZATION

  NIGHT WALK

  TIRED

  SICK

  I WILL DO THIS FOR THEM

  THE RECITAL

  EMERGENCY ROOM VISIT

  FORGIVENESS

  HOME AND HOSPITALS

  Spring THE REHASH

  MORE CHANGES

  QUESTIONS WITHOUT ANSWERS

  JOY, PURE AND DEEP DOWN

  EARLY CALL

  STREAMING LIFE

  TIME TO REFLECT

  DREAMING NEW DREAMS

  DOUBLE DOSE

  GETTING THE SHOW ON THE ROAD

  FRIDAY EVENING

  THE FIRST PARTY

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  If You Liked Behind These Hands

  Autumn

  THE TOCCATA IN D MINOR

  Late afternoon sun

  slants through the windows

  in dancing patterns.

  Trees full of tired leaves

  sway outside in a humid

  September wind,

  the kind of wind that

  brings hurricanes to these parts.

  Bach’s Toccata in D Minor

  lifts off the keyboard,

  not by itself

  like an old-fashioned player piano,

  but because practiced fingers,

  fingers that Dad said were born

  fourteen years ago

  for precisely this purpose,

  know the exact moment to strike,

  the exact moment to lift.

  Playing this piece creates

  its own hurricane in my head.

  Maybe dark for a moment

  and eerie<
br />
  then rising above the storm.

  A storm that ends

  not with destruction

  but depletion,

  exhaustion,

  relief.

  I finish the piece and stare

  down at these long, slender fingers

  that seem to have already made important

  life decisions

  without much input from me.

  I’m about ready to start a conversation—

  me with my hands and fingers—

  when I hear a sound

  growing painfully familiar:

  Davy bumping into the doorway

  on his way from the kitchen,

  letting out with a loud “ouch”

  before plopping into the chair

  next to the piano.

  “Can you teach me now, Claire?

  Please, can you?”

  I watch an orange popsicle

  drip down his wrist.

  I jump up to catch it with

  a ragged Kleenex from my pocket.

  “Your hands are sticky and

  I have homework, Bud.

  Another time, okay?”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  He sidles off the chair and stumbles up

  the stairs, leaving an orange trail

  on the hardwood floor.

  “I don’t always say you have sticky

  fingers,” I mutter under my breath.

  But it’s true.

  I always say something to put him off

  because otherwise I would have to face

  trying to teach my nearly blind,

  learning-disabled brother

  how to play the Toccata

  and that thought

  overwhelms

  me.

  THE BROTHERS

  Davy wasn’t always visually impaired.

  That’s what they call him at school

  since his eyesight started going bad last year.

  I was seven when he was born,

  perfect in every way,

  chubby,

  smiling all the time.

  I used to ask Mom why he didn’t cry much.

  She just told me to enjoy it

  while it lasts.

  It has lasted all these years

  even when his eyesight started going bad

  and now

  they say he has a learning disorder,

  but he just keeps smiling.

  It bothers me

  that he smiles so much,

  maybe because it doesn’t seem

  normal;

  maybe because I know for sure

  if I were in his shoes

  my smile

  would be the first to go.

  Trent smiles, too,

  but it’s more often like

  the sun that comes out after a storm.

  Fiercely competitive at the age of six,

  especially in anything athletic,

  it takes some work on everybody’s part

  to get him to smile

  after he loses at anything.

  But even at his young age

  he rarely loses.

  He’s that competitive.

  I hear them upstairs in Davy’s room

  playing Nintendo.

  The bleeps and clicks,

  wah wahs, kerpows,

  scale runs announcing

  down

  the

  flagpole

  or

  power up,

  form their own familiar music,

  and for now

  it is a peaceful,

  harmonious duet.

  Davy must be smiling along

  with Trent’s triumphs.

  “THE KITE”

  I move the something-interesting-casserole

  from fridge to oven and set the time

  and temperature.

  It’s faculty meeting day for Mom

  and Wind Ensemble practice for Dad

  which means one of them

  did pre-dinner cooking before dawn.

  They have teamwork and efficiency down

  so well

  it’s hard to decide which one

  contributed most

  to my type-A,

  power-driven,

  ambitious

  gene-pool.

  I have time to get in some practice

  before I make the salad

  or before the melodic duo upstairs

  deteriorates into

  brotherly discord.

  I ease onto the piano bench,

  pause to breathe, straighten my posture

  much as I do

  before a recital, and let my fingers go

  unleashed like puppies on an open beach.

  I let them go wherever they want,

  and I talk to them.

  (Only Juan knows I talk to my hands

  and fingers. He and his flute fingers

  are the only ones

  who could ever relate.)

  Let’s fly.

  Sail.

  Soar.

  Don’t let the wind catch up.

  My composition, “The Kite,”

  not yet put down on paper

  but carving an increasingly firm

  notch in my brain,

  carries me back eight years to Nags Head

  on a Carolina blue day

  when it was just Mom and Dad

  and me,

  the flaming red and orange dragon kite,

  and a roaring ocean wind

  the week before first grade.

  The taste of salt,

  sand clinging to my bare feet,

  my long hair trailing behind in the wind

  like the dragon’s tail,

  the rising, dipping,

  unpredictable flight path

  and most of all

  the lyrical, contagious laughter

  of Mom

  and Dad

  and me.

  I finish the piece, smiling.

  Yes, I have it.

  Yes, I am ready to write it down.

  Yes, I am ready to record it.

  Yes, I am ready to go after

  the most prestigious music contest

  in North Carolina.

  JUAN

  I picture Juan’s composition

  bursting out his open bedroom window

  on these Autumn afternoons

  like a soaring songbird.

  When Juan practices, he loses himself

  in his music

  totally,

  just like I do.

  Every breath he breathes

  into his sterling silver Haynes

  results in

  mysterious,

  magical

  music.

  I haven’t heard his piece

  but I know it will be

  genius material.

  We’ve been best friends

  and musical competitors

  since our mothers signed us up

  for piano lessons

  at Mrs. Cobb’s Music Studio

  when we were five.

  In the fourth grade Juan

  discovered the flute,

  but he says

  piano will always be his first love.

  He’s taken first place

  at just about every flute competition

  he’s ever entered.

  When his parents got him

  the sterling silver Haynes

  two years ago,

  he gave me his old Armstrong

  and enough lessons

  to play mess-around flute

  with him when the mood strikes.

  Now there’s a new twist

  and no time for jamming.

  For the first time

  ever

  we will compete against each other

  in the NC Music Teachers’ Association

  composition competition.

  Juan on the flu
te,

  me on the piano,

  there can be

  only

  one

  winner.

  The thought of this

  not being a good idea

  gives me more butterflies

  than the thought of

  performing my own composition.

  But Juan,

  ever the punster,

  says we can both “Handel” it

  and ever the competitor,

  says we should each pour all our energy

  into perfecting our own piece.

  When I consulted my fingers

  they agreed,

  but my heart

  isn’t quite so sure.

  MIA

  I don’t really consult Mia

  about competing against Juan

  because I already know

  what she will say.

  “Go for it, girl!”

  Her confidence in me

  exceeds

  my confidence in me

  most of the time.

  My confidence in her

  exceeds

  my confidence in me

  most of the time,

  too.

  What we have in common

  is an unadulterated obsession

  over the things we love most.

  She’s been writing stories,

  poems,

  plays,

  articles,

  and her mother’s grocery list

  since she was barely out of diapers,

  or so she tells me.

  You don’t get to be yearbook editor,

  and school newspaper editor,

  and writing contest winner

  unless there’s some truth to it.

  She tries to get me to branch out,

  you know, write an article or two

  for the paper,

  and I try to get her to appreciate the beauty

  of Bach’s chorales,

  but mostly we stay buried in our own worlds

  and maintain our membership

  in the mutual admiration society.

  HOME AFTER SCHOOL

  Mom arrives first

  with the beaten down,

  post-faculty-meeting look